


Into the Dark

by rw_eaden



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Eventual Smut, Ghost Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ghosts, Good AUmens AU Festival, M/M, Magic, Michael is Aziraphale's Sibling (Good Omens), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Temporary Character Death, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Witch Crowley (Good Omens), Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 12:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24969844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rw_eaden/pseuds/rw_eaden
Summary: Anthony Crowley is a witch. No, not the kind of New Age “peace and love” crystal healer type, an actual, honest to God, millennia-old witch. He’s seen a lot in his long lifetime, from the fall of Rome to the birth of the internet and every laughable, horrifying, and curious thing in between. One thing he hasn’t seen, however, is a ghast. Or, at least, he hadn’t seen one until the day he walked into a mysterious bookshop in London.Now Crowley has to figure out what he’s going to do about the dead witch and his spectral bookshop in the middle of a busy metropolis before it starts raining misery on everyone in proximity. Shouldn’t be that hard, right? Well, it might not be, if not for the fact that said witch is very handsome and charming in an infuriating sort of way. And Crowley… well… he’s a little bit more than just interested.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	Into the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! So first and foremost, this is my attempt at an AU for the Good Aumens AU Fest! My AU was "magic users" so let's see if I can make this work with our favorite angel and demon duo as a pair of witches.   
> Just a note: The fic is tagged as MCD because 1) Aziraphale is not alive (spoilers I guess, but you'll find that out pretty quickly... and it's tagged...) and 2) I'm... actually not sure how this one ends yet. BUT I can promise that all character death, no matter how much it hurts at the time, will be temporary. This WILL have a happy ending.   
> Another note: I will probably be adding more tags as the fic progresses. I try to tag about a chapter ahead (except for the smut tags - those will happen later) so as to keep you all aware of what's coming up. If you read something and think something needs to be tagged, please let me know. My intention is never to hurt anyone or cause undue stress, so just reach out to me either in the comments or on [my tumblr](https://rosemoonweaver.tumblr.com/)and I'll probably tag whatever you need.

It begins, as most things do, with mild curiosity. Crowley had been minding his own business, enjoying a pleasant drive through the streets of London when he got a familiar feeling. There was something magic in the air, close enough to sniff out, and of course, he was going to follow it. A few lane changes here and a barely red light run later, he found himself in front of a quaint little bookshop in Soho, one that radiated magic and left the faint burning taste of electricity on his tongue. A. Z. Fell and Co’s, apparently. Not one that’s familiar to him, but he can’t know every bookshop, magical or otherwise, in all of London, now can he? 

The interior of the show is like no other bookshop he’s been in. It has the general shape of a regular, nonmagical shop, but the organization leaves a lot to be desired. The shelves, which stretch nearly halfway to the ceiling are full, but none of them seem to invite browsing. The one nearest the door is tilted at an odd angle, nearly cutting off the path to another bookshelf sitting behind it. There are books on nearly every surface and in stacks on the floor. As he meanders deeper into the shop he finds more clutter, papers, and discarded pens lying on all flat surfaces, hastily scribbled notes wedged in between books on the shelves, and cobwebs dripping from the ceiling. There is a rug on the floor that’s seen better days, and the wood floor below his feet is scuffed and dingy, and the spiral staircase that leads to a short landing is in need of new a good polish and a new runner. The windows that wrap around the landing are brown and bulging with age. The whole shop smells faintly of mold and stale water. 

Crowley doesn’t bother calling out for anyone. If there’s anyone inside the building they’ll find him or he’ll find them. Instead, he winds his way through the maze of shelves, browsing. Most of the books on the shelves are unmarked, their cloth and leather spines dusty with age. Removing one reveals the darker wood of the shelves, the bit that hasn’t been aged by whatever sun manages to get in. A few of the books are by authors Crowley at least vaguely recognizes, and a few blatantly advertise more malignant forms of magic. There’s even a copy of Malleus Maleficarum, which makes Crowley snort until he opens it and realizes how brittle the pages are. A corner crumbles beneath his fingers, and he quickly shoves it back in its place. 

“Can I help you with something?” A haughty, masculine voice comes from behind him, nearly making Crowley jump. As it is, he bangs his knee into one of the low shelves of the bookcase. 

“I - I was just browsing,” he says. 

The man is older, in regular mortal terms at least, with white hair and a soft, round face. He’s well dressed, in cream-colored trousers and a coat, but his waistcoat looks like it’s seen better days. He squints, the soft bow of his lips pulling down into a tight frown. 

“Well, we’re closing soon,” he says. 

Crowley hums. “I’ll be out of your hair soon,” he says. He reaches forward to pick up another nameless book when the man jumps to pull it from the shelf himself. 

“Sorry, this shouldn’t be here. It’s a part of my personal collection. No idea how it got here,” he says. 

“Right,” Crowley says. His attention is pulled to the way this strange man’s fingers curl around the spine of the book, the way he shifts ever so slightly on his feet. Obviously he wants Crowley out of his shop, which of course is the reason Crowley is going to stay until he’s kicked out. “So what do you specialize in around here?” 

“Specialize? It’s a book shop.”

“Yes, I can see that. What I mean is, are you selling anything… for a particular niche?” 

“I think you’re looking for the shop next door,” he says. 

“No, I’m fairly certain what I’m interested in there’s something here that I might be interested in.” 

The man rolls his eyes. “And what might that be?” 

“Something a little more… occult perhaps?” 

An eerie light flashes over the eyes of the bookshop keeper, and in an instant Crowley knows he’s got him. He cannot help the self-satisfied smirk that crosses his lips. Definitely a witch then. 

“I wouldn’t - you - this is a respectable establishment!” The shopkeeper says. 

“Oh sure, sure. A respectable establishment with occult materials that I might like to purchase.” 

The man squints, his tight little frown deepening the laugh lines around his lips. “I don’t sell those kinds of things  _ here _ ,” he says. 

“Ah, so not here. Perhaps you have a backroom?” 

He looks back over his shoulder, towards the very obvious door leading to what might be a private office or might be a private collection. “I - no. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Ah, I see how it is then.” And he does. Of course, there are other shops in London and the world over for that matter, but no witch worth their salt sells it out in the open. At least, not the real stuff, that is. “Well, I’ll be on my way then.” He laces a little of his own magic through the words as he shoves his hands into his pockets (or at least attempts to), and wanders back through the stacks. 

“Really?” 

“Well if you can’t help me why should I stick around?” 

“Well then.” He almost looks a little disheartened by it, which is exactly what Crowley was going for. “I suppose you ought to be.” 

“Unless…” Crowley drawls. There’s magic here. Heavy, old magic that sits like syrup on his tongue. But if Crowley knows anything, it’s that the witches who hoard old magic don’t let it go so easily. 

“No. No,” says the shopkeeper. 

“Well then. I’ll see you around,” Crowley says, slipping back towards the front door and ushered out by the twinkling of the little doorbell. 

\--- 

It takes Crowley three days to get back to the shop. Normally, he’d let it go for a little bit longer but there’s something different about this one. 

He finds the owner moving a stack of books one item at a time from one random pile on the floor to another. He doesn’t notice Crowley at first, but when he does he’s got three large tomes in his arms and a deep frown on his lips. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“... well I thought I’d like to buy a book,” says Crowley. 

“You were just in here, weren’t you?” The bookseller asks. 

Crowley shrugs. “Few days ago, I believe.” 

The bookseller squints at him, the crease between his brows deepening. “Well, I regret to inform you that we’re closing soon.” 

“Again? It’s barely eleven.” 

“It’s my shop, I’ll close or open it at my own digression.” 

Crowley threw up his hands and slunk just a little bit closer. “You’re right. Your shop. I was just in the area, though. Figured I could find something of interest here.” 

“If you’re asking for occult magic I still don’t have it, Mr…” 

“Crowley. Just call me Crowley.” 

The bookseller’s lips pulled into a tight line, a single eyebrow twitching upward. 

“I swear, it’s my real name,” Crowley says. 

“The fact remains, Mr.  _ Crowley _ -” 

“Just Crowley.” 

“- that I do not have the kind of occult material you’re looking for.” 

Perhaps it’s fate. Perhaps it’s a sign. Maybe it’s just dumb luck. Whatever the cause, all Crowley needs to do is look down at the stack of books at his feet to find concrete evidence that the bookseller is lying. 

“What about that one?” Crowley asks, pointing at the newly uncovered and easily recognizable reprint of Thornton’s 17th-century exploration of necromancy in gardening. 

The shopkeeper pales, then hastily slams his pile of books down on top of it. “It’s out of your price range.” 

“Money is no object,” Crowley says. 

“50,000,” says the shopkeeper. 

Crowley really can’t help but sputter at that. Granted, it’s not like he doesn’t have that much money just lying around - being older than most current currency does have it’s advantages, after all - but there’s no way he’s actually going to pay it. At least not right now. 

“That thing? All that’s in it is spells for better cucumbers. It’s only worthy 10,000 at the very most.” 

“Not here, it’s not.” 

The look Crowley is leveled with is positively indignant and he really can’t help but want to laugh. The man looks like he’s about ready to throw down over the price of what amounts to an excentric gardening manual, his eyes blazing and arms crossed fight over his middle. 

“Besides, if you already know what’s in it, why do you need it?” The shopkeeper snarks. 

“I already know what’s in dictionaries but I still have one of those, too.” 

The shopkeeper tosses his head and rolls his eyes but doesn’t verbally concede. “The fact remains, you can’t afford it so you don’t need it.” 

“Now, I never said I couldn’t afford it.” 

The shopkeeper purses his lips as a distinct ripple of heat rushes through the air, like opening the door to a sauna in the middle of winter. Oh, how  _ interesting _ . 

“I’d pay 50,000 for it,” Crowley says, “even if it’s highway robbery.” He can taste the heat in the air on his tongue as he speaks and it’s delicious. Well, not the heat, of course, but the fact that it’s there. It’s been so long since he’s met a witch with this kind of power - probably not since Babylon - and here on is in his own backyard! He could leap for joy if he were the leaping sort. 

“Oh, is that the phone?” The shopkeeper says. And on cue, the phone does of course ring. “I really must take that. I’ve been expecting a call, you see. My family is in town. But I do have to close the shop now so if you’ll just be on your way…” He levels Crowley with a steep eyebrow and a tight frown. 

“Very well. I’ll come back at a better time,” he says. 

“Of course you will,” mutters the shopkeeper. 

He leads Crowley to and out the door, locking it as soon as Crowley’s out on the street. It’s alright, though. He’s already got plans to head back. He’s found something much more interesting than a bookshop, after all. 


End file.
